


The Pain Means I'm Still Alive

by stars28



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Depression, Fist Fights, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 20:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10884288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars28/pseuds/stars28
Summary: He could picture the stain that was taking place under his jacket sleeves; bright red bleeding into bright white. It felt like a metaphor for something.





	The Pain Means I'm Still Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I need to apologise for hurting Jack yet again. Except this time, I’m beating him up instead of torturing him with unrequited love. (Is that really any better?)
> 
> (No, not really.)

_“I hurt myself today_  
_To see if I still feel_  
_I focus on the pain_  
_The only thing that's real…”_  
**\- Hurt, Nine Inch Nails.**

Jack’s knuckles _hurt_ , trails of blood running down his fingers and down his wrists. But that was a good thing. It meant that he was still alive, that the darkness hadn’t swallowed him up completely. Yet. He knew it was just a matter of time before it did again. He’d barely survived the last time. He thought that the darkness would never leave.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold wind and walked back home, uncaring of the blood that was trickling down his arms and soaking into the white sleeves of his shirt. He could picture the stain that was taking place under his jacket sleeves; bright red bleeding into bright white. It felt like a metaphor for something. He didn’t know what for.

*

When Jack entered his tiny apartment, it was almost dawn, soft light spilling in through the small rectangular windows. He’d spent too long down in the dark, dank basement fighting club; the only place he felt _alive_ when the darkness was so close to him he could see it out of the corner of his eyes. (He’d only meant to spend a couple hours down there, at the most. But time must’ve slipped away from him, the way it always did when he was like this.) It was a mistake, but a mistake that he would be noticed for. Someone at the office – probably Carter, knowing his luck – would notice the deep purple bags around his eyes or the knuckles that were beginning to scab over. He felt the urge to pick the scabs off and had to dig his dirty fingernails into the thighs to stop himself from carrying that urge through.

After a few minutes, feeling blood well up from under his nails and blinking in the light that the weak sun gave off, Jack forced himself to let go of his thighs and went to the bathroom. He stripped off, leaving his clothes by the door, and climbed in the shower.

The sting of the cuts and bruises that littered his body – he didn’t _always_ win when he fought, contrary to popular belief – were almost enough to drown out the self-loathing thoughts out of his head. The word being _almost_. Not quite enough, never quite good enough.

*

By the time he’d finished in the shower and tended to the cuts scattered across his body as well as bandaged his knuckles, it was nearly time for him to go to work. The thought nearly made him cry, going to the SSR was the last place he wanted to be when he felt like this – empty, useless and hopeless. He’d much rather curl up on his old couch and stare at the wall or go back to the basement and feel _alive_.

But he knew he had to. The other agents would notice if he wasn’t there. He was the Chief after all. The title filled him with so much self-hatred. He’d never be as good as Chief Dooley. Never. No matter what he said in the office, it was just bravado, trying desperately to make up for the fact that he was a scared little boy on the inside.

It was with great reluctance that he got changed into a clean suit. In his bedroom, he stared into his reflection in the mirror, attempting to catch a glance of the man he used to be. A courageous man, a brave one. The man who didn’t hide white peace flags in the dirt after shooting six men dead.

Jack sighed, straightening his fresh tie; he didn’t think that man would ever come back. And he thought he deserved that.

He turned away from the mirror.

*

A barrage of voices greeted him as he entered the SSR offices. It was unpleasant, reminding him of how he used to do the same to Dooley, but he smiled anyway. He couldn’t let his guard down for a second.

“Thompson.”

Jack stopped in the doorway of his office, so _close_ to (temporary) shelter, and turned to the lone female voice. He shoved his hands in his pockets, hiding the evidence of the previous night.

He made an effort to be civil; he had to. She knew his second most important and closely guarded secret, the other being the darkness. He nodded, “Carter.”

“We’ve got something on the case.” Carter said, her gaze flicking over him, “It’s on your desk.”

“Sure thing.” He replied, with a fake smile, as though he cared about the case right now. He knew that he _should_ , but that was all he did in that moment.

The brown-haired female agent tilted her head to one side for a moment. Then she asked, “Are you alright Jack?”

He made his smile wider. “Of course I am.”

Jack knew one thing – he had to go back to the basement fight club. He needed the adrenaline to last him the rest of the week.

*

He was in the ring, the crowd yelling and swearing, baying for blood. His blonde hair flopped in front of his eyes and he brushed it aside before taking a hit to the stomach, falling down to the concrete floor. He took the majority of the impact with his left knee, feeling something scream with pain. He didn’t make a sound.

His opponent, a dark-haired, study-looking man, obviously thought he was down for the count because he backed off and started to walk around the makeshift ring.

It’d take more than a knee injury to keep a Thompson down. Jack knew that, breathing harshly and spitting a mouthful of blood on to the concrete. Hell, he’d learnt the sentiment early on from his father, who’d beaten it into him many times.

 _“Fuck.”_ He said as he heaved himself up.

His opponent snapped his head around so quickly Jack was almost surprised that it didn’t snap clean off. He grinned bloodily, anticipating the next move perfectly. He sidestepped the fist aimed at his stomach and retaliated with a left hook to his opponents’ jaw, sending his neck backwards violently. The rest of his opponents’ body followed suit, collapsing onto the ground with a thud.

He smirked, blood dripping down his chin, and felt truly alive for the first time since the previous night.

Jack exited the ring, the crowd parting for him as he headed to the changing rooms, limping heavily. He didn’t look back.

*

He got home as the sun was rising and had a quick shower before falling into bed for a couple of hours. He knew he’d be needed at the SSR before long. He knew his limits and running off coffee for longer than two full days was one of them.

*

“Thompson?”

“Yeah?” He said lazily, looking up from the papers he was pursuing.

“We’ve got some – _holy shit._ ” Sousa replied.

Jack frowned and promptly remembered the bruise that was placed directly on his left cheek, thanks to last night’s opponent. He was glad that the rest of his injuries, although they hurt – particularly his knee – were out of sight. He’d known it was just a matter of time before he got a visible injury which one of his co-workers would pick up on. He was sort of surprised it was Sousa though, not Carter.

“W-what the hell happened?”

He winced, there was no way Sousa would let it go. He’d have to tell him.

“Would you believe me if I said nothing?” He responded, pushing his papers to one side. There was no way he’d get through any more whilst Sousa was in his office.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

He tipped back in his chair, taking special care to use his right leg, and hummed thoughtfully, “I got into a fight.”

It was true. Just not the full truth. Jack was going to avoid the whole truth for as long as fucking possible.

“Right. And?”

“I beat him. That’s all you need to know.”

“So you, Jack Thompson, beat someone in a fight and _didn’t_ regale us all with tales of your bravery?” Sousa said, disbelief clear in his voice.

 _Shit._ He was going to have to stretch the truth and hope that Sousa didn’t notice.

“I was in a bar, havin’ a drink.”

Not untrue, there _were_ drinks served in the basement fight club, though hardly enough to class it as a ‘bar’.

“And some guys started makin’ a fuss of me in my hat and suit. I let them go on with it, figuring that it was gonna be all talk with no action. Which was what happened for about half an hour or so, I suppose? I go outside, intending to go back to my place, only to find that one of ‘em had the bright idea of following me out. Needless to say this,” Jack gestured at the bruise on his face. “Was the only hit that bastard managed to get in. I left him on the sidewalk, bleeding all over the place.”

Jack grinned, feeling almost feral with the memory of smacking his opponent down to the ground. He was eager to get back in the ring, talking about it, but he knew he’d have to wait ‘til his knee healed completely.

“Oh. Ok then.”

“Told ya. Barely anything to make into a story.” He said.

Jack breathed a sigh of relief as Sousa left his office. That had been too close for comfort. Hopefully that was end of it.

*

It was the weekend. Which meant that, barring any national emergencies, he had the time to do what he wanted.

Today’s task was to stare at the wall blankly, listening to the voice in his head that was telling him that he was _fucking useless_ , that he was weak, that people could manage without him, and that he needed to be beaten to a pulp again.

How about that for irony – the thing that made him feel _alive_ was also the thing that was punishment. When he found the energy to get up from the couch and leave his apartment, Jack knew that he’d end up back at the basement fight club and he really doubted that he’d win a fight tonight.

He wanted _punishment_ , not glory.

*

A voice in his head, which sounded annoyingly like Carter, was saying that this was a terrible idea. He’d only just recovered from last time. He shrugged it off, stepping into the ring and letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background.

He grinned at the heavy-set man who was his opponent for the night, which seemed to rile him up. Perfect. Jack found that angry men hit just _that_ much harder than men who weren’t.

Within minutes, he was on the floor, grinning around the blood pouring from his nose and the pain radiating from his sides. He was an idiot, but it was this that felt redemption; it would keep the darkness away for just that bit longer. Keep him from giving in to it, as tempting as it was.

Jack got up slowly and painfully before heading out of the room, towards the makeshift changing rooms.

He wasn’t a brave man, he was a fucking coward, and, as ironic as it was, pain kept him alive. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> (PSA: I wrote this while listening to the Guardians of the Galaxy: Volume 2 soundtrack.)
> 
> Technically, this doesn't have Jack/Daniel focus...but whatever. Tell me if you liked this.


End file.
